The rolling sea tossed the small skiff about.   The sea spray coated the deck, and everything on it with a film that would leave them sticky to the touch. Kyra closed her eyes as they hit a large swell. The motion would not be so bad on a larger boat, but this boat, this captain, suited her purposes best.

Kyra didn't know the captain's name, nor he hers. She just paid the burly man for passage, that was the deal. Kyra glanced at him behind the helm. It was mostly computerized, which disappointed her. It spoiled the image of a dashing captain standing at the helm, holding a wheel almost as large as he was to gain balance against the waves and wind. This captain only had the straggly hair that resulted from being windblown and unwashed. Otherwise he stayed in the small room, protected from all but the rocking.

The door to the helm opened briefly. "Whales," he said, and let the door shut again. Kyra turned her attention to the stern, or was it aft? She could never remember. There, in front of the boat, almost too far to make out, was a form on the horizon. Kyra held her breath and listened. The sound of the engine and the water slapping the boat were all she heard. Realistically Kyra knew the creature, a blue whale, from what she could make out, was too far to hear. Whale song carried best underwater, anyway. She briefly imaged leaning over the railing far enough to stick her head in the water, of being able to hear conversation taking place below the waves.

The sun became bright in Kyra's eyes as the captain adjusted their course. Kyra took one last look at the whales, then turned away from the sun. She studied the captain in his helm. His movements as he made the final course adjustments, checking against a satellite-mapping, device were fluid, relaxed. Kyra might have assumed it was a mundane task for an experienced captain, but he looked like he was enjoying himself.

Kyra pictured Dustin in his office, with it's artsy steal surfaces that reminded Kyra of a hospital. He never smiled in that office, and certainly never looked like he was enjoying work. Right now he was probably settled in his large leather chair, more reminiscent of a recliner than office furniture, with the phone head set cradled between his shoulder and ear. He'd have a fancy gel pen poised at the ready above a note pad, and the telltale frown on his face that showed he was concentrating.

She tried to imagine him at the helm of the skiff, but his tweed suit and silky tie wouldn't allow the image to solidify. He wouldn't have anywhere to put his briefcase.

The sun grew warm on Kyra's neck, and she sought the only shade on the deck, provided by the helm. She reached into the cheap Styrofoam cooler and pulled out a bottle of water, holding it against her neck before opening it.

The ocean had grown calmer the further the skiff went. If she closed her eyes, Kyra could imagine she was floating on a cloud. The mist of the sea was the moisture of unformed raindrops, the engine a passing jet. She sat, enjoying the gentle rocking, imagining how the world would look if she were really in a cloud. The forest near her house was reduced to a clump of green, her house a small dot in a brown field. She could imagine birds wheeling below the cumulus she occupied, proportionately larger than the ground below.

It was too quiet, in this imagined sky, and Kyra acknowledged the difference between the sky and sea. Up there she was isolated, far away from the life the planet held. Not just the living creatures, but the inherent force that made the planet thrum. On the boat, she could feel it closer than she'd felt before. Here the pulse of the planet was strong, echoed by all the creatures living in the waves. The sound, the life, playing back and back again, intensifying, as it could not do above water. Even here on the deck that sense of life was released in increments into the air, to be dispersed, eventually fading out into space.

No, it was beneath the ocean that life was at its peak. It was in the deep blue where Kyra knew she would find the strongest sense of home. Dustin would not understand this homecoming, nor it's importance to Kyra, so he sat at his desk, unaware, working on an inane report, while she was here, finding life, pursuing the song that could be found only in the depth of the sea.

When her journey was done, Dustin would be practical about things. Her whale song CDs would be the first to go. Probably burned or broken. He didn't understand the fascination they held for her, and he would feel threatened by them on some deep level. They provided comfort when he could not, helped her gain remission on more than one occasion. Her clothes would be donated. If she was found, he'd have her placed in the lavender suit. She hated the wool garment, but it was the only thing that fit her gaunt form with anything resembling an appropriate cut. She could imagine the silent tears that would blur his eyes, but refuse to fall.

Kyra opened her eyes to escape the vision. The skiff hit a swell, rising up, followed by a sharp drop to the trough of the wave. Clouds had rolled in, gray and growing darker. The sea responded to the threat with an increased pulse, causing the surface to rise and fall. Kyra stood at the front of the skiff, enjoying motion. If he were here, Dustin would be long since nauseated. For Kyra, it wasn't so bad. Chemo was worse.

The sound of the engine slowed, then cut out. The captain came to the door of the helm, looking hard at the dark clouds on the horizon. "Here's fine," Kyra said. The gruff man nodded, then headed below deck to the small engine room.